Application Process
by JennyBunny65
Summary: Natalia Romanova's recruitment to SHIELD didn't follow the usual application process...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: Hey everyone! This is my first story posted on , though I've posted elsewhere, and I'm not really sure this is the correct way to do notes and such, so I apologize. The song lyrics are from "Comes and Goes" by Greg Laswell; the M rating is for generous swearing and mentions of sexual stuff; and I do not own any of the Avengers, not even the movies, so just be aware. Reviews are always welcome!**

_This one's for the lonely _

_The ones that seek and find _

_Only to be let down _

_Time after time_

"Incoming!"

Agent Rebecca Nelson looked up just in time to catch the bottle of Gatorade hurtling towards her head. Seconds later, Clint Barton plopped into the seat across the table, his tray heavily laden with the dining hall's rubbery pasta and suspiciously pale meatballs.

"Thanks for the warning, Hawkeye. Next time, you could just _hand_ it to me."

Barton snorted, which was probably a bad idea with his mouth full of spaghetti. Swallowing, he rolled his eyes and complained, "At least I remembered to grab a blue one this time. You love blue Gatorade! You should be _thanking_ me."

Nelson sighed. "I like the purple Gatorade. But you're getting closer." Rebecca could never understand what qualifications Coulson had seen in Barton – why he decided the 20-year-old criminal would make an excellent new recruit. Sure, he could shoot straight (with a _bow and arrow_, no less), but then, so could 99% of the agents here. Barton was loud, irreverent, scatter-brained, and rebellious.

Which was probably why Rebecca liked him so much as person, but not at all as a team member. Sure, Strike Team Gamma had the highest success rate of any S.H.I.E.L.D team to date, and sure, Barton's sniper skills had a lot to do with that. She still didn't really see him as government spy material.

Case in point: Barton had given up trying to eat what passed as food in the S.H.I.E.L.D. dining hall and was instead seeing how many meatballs he could stack on top of one another. So far, his record was an impressive 8 (and how did he get so many meatballs anyway, the cafeteria workers were not _that_ generous with anyone), but whenever the tower of meat fell, both Agent Nelson and the tabletop were splattered with sauce.

"Will you act your age and not your shoe size for once, Barton?" Nelson grumbled. She wasn't all that concerned with the red speckles on her white jacket – after years spent getting stubborn blood stains out of clothing, washing out little things like juice or spaghetti sauce posed no problem. Still, her nerves were stretched tight today, making her lash out at everyone. Barton, as perceptive as he was, didn't fail to notice.

"What's with you today? Hell, what's with _everyone_ today? I haven't seen a single person smile in the last 12 hours."

Rebecca leaned towards Barton, subtly checking for eavesdroppers in her peripheral vision. Barton mimicked her actions, scooting forward in his chair, his meatball masterpiece forgotten.

"Something's happening with the higher-ups. Something _big_. Everyone and anyone with a level 10 clearance has been in and out of Fury's office all day. Normally, that wouldn't mean anything, except they've gone totally mute. Won't talk about anything – not even the weather."

Barton's eyes widened excitedly, then narrowed slightly. "Dammit. A few more months and I could've been in there too. I mean, I've given the last 10 years of my life to these people and I _still_ miss out on the fun stuff. Remember when they caught Bin Laden? I was like, the last person to know. Muriel found out before me, and she's still in _training_."

"That's because Muriel watches the news. You should try it too, sometime."

Clint waved away her comment irritably. "That's not the point. The point is, young, passionate people like us joined S.H.I.E.L.D. to make a difference in the world. But whenever a huge, earth-shattering, save-the-world moment comes along, who gets to be the heroes? People like Dragon Lady Hill and Rules 'R' Us Sitwell."

"Rules 'R' Us, really, Barton? You can do better than that."

"Stick-Up-His-Ass Sitwell? I'm trying to rant here, Becks, not run a comedy club." Clint's eyes glittered mischievously, and he raised his voice slightly. "You should hear some of the names I've got for Coulson, though."

"I'd like to hear some of those myself, Barton."

Rebecca jumped slightly when Agent Coulson appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Clint hadn't even flinched, and Rebecca suspected Clint had sensed his approach – the two had been fast friends ever since Clint joined S.H.I.E.L.D., their relationship more brotherly than handler-and-agent. Rebecca envied that easy friendship; she would never dare taunt Coulson like that. He was a higher-up, a Suit – a former field agent turned handler – and, furthermore, was the head agent of Strike Team Gamma. He had a perfect poker face, and Rebecca wouldn't lie: he scared the bejeebees out of her.

"If you're done with your gossip, agents, Director Fury would like to speak with Agent Barton. Immediately."

Clint grinned easily up at Coulson and patted the chair next to him. "C'mon Phil, take a breather. The pasta is delic- well, edible today. And while you eat, you can catch us up on the dirty little secrets the Level 10s have been keeping from us."

Coulson didn't even blink. Rebecca wasn't even sure he _had_ to succumb to little human weaknesses like blinking. "As…appealing… as that sounds, this takes precedence. Barton, this is Code Red."

Clint's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "There's a Code Red? I thought we tried to avoid clichés like that. Did you know we had a Code Red?" Rebecca shook her head.

Coulson laid a firm hand on Barton's shoulder. Something in the man's face must have convinced Clint to be serious, because Clint stood instantly, his expression focused – the look of a sniper prepping for a kill.

"Tell you all about it later, Becks."

"You better, Barton!"

As the two men exited the dining hall, Rebecca could hear Coulson say quietly, "Not a word of this to anyone, Clint. This is strictly Level 10 clearance. Welcome to the Big Leagues, kid."

Clint Barton was having a weird day. He'd slept in until 10 o'clock without a single person bothering him, he'd talked Gretchen into sneaking him extra meatballs at lunch (though why he wanted them, he wasn't sure. Not to eat, certainly. He'd had some half formed plan involving the rafters of the gym, the new recruits, and a slingshot…) and now, to top it all off, he'd just been promoted to the highest clearance level in S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence. Sure, being at a Level 9 clearance was still pretty damn impressive – it was higher than most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ever achieved, and he'd paid for the standing in blood and bullets. A Level 10, though…that was, as Phil correctly noted, the Big Leagues.

By the time Clint and Coulson reached Fury's office, Clint was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Yeah, snipers had to be patient, and he could sit and stare at empty, burned-out crack houses until the cows came home, but when he was off the job, he had the mentality of a spoiled child. He blamed Phil for being much nicer than any handler had a right to be.

Phil opened the door to Fury's office, and Clint didn't need the encouraging nod to rush into the room. He wasn't sure what he expected: an alien race making contact? An enemy spy bound and gagged in the corner? At the very least, he was anticipating raised voices, scattered files, and glowing monitors.

Instead, only one pathetically thin folder lay in the dead center of the conference table. A single monitor was on, showing a frozen scene of grainy black-and-white footage. From a security camera, Clint assumed. The other five or six agents (including, as he'd predicted earlier, Agents Hill and Sitwell) were sitting silently in their chairs, avoiding eye contact with Fury and each other. No one looked up when Clint entered; he was pretty sure Sitwell was covertly playing Words with Friends on his cell phone.

"Have a seat, Agent Barton. We're glad you could join us." Judging by the glances the other agents shared, Clint guessed only Fury was actually pleased to see him. Then again, Clint didn't think the Director was especially happy either. His face was grim and frustrated, emotions that looked doubly intimidating when paired with the man's eye patch.

"I want you to take a look at this clip from a security camera in Berlin" – _nailed it_, Clint thought – "and tell us what you see."

The video started playing. It showed a monochromatic crowd in a monochromatic marketplace, jostling around each other and chattering too loudly for specific words to be distinguished. As Clint watched, unsure of what he was watching for, one of the shoppers suddenly stumbled into a fruit stand, knocking apples to the ground. The shopkeeper ran over, as though to yell at him, before jumping back and letting out a piercing scream. It was then that Clint noticed the man's collar was black with blood, and the front of his shirt was steadily darkening as the stain spread. Within seconds, the man died.

The clip stopped.

Clint wasn't really sure what to say to that, but everyone was looking at him – including Hill, with a sanctimonious little smirk on her face – so he took a stab at it. "Well, sir, it appears to be footage of a murder scene."

Hill snorted softly at that, but Fury nodded, as though he had expected the answer. "Can you identify the murderer, Agent Barton?"

Clint focused on the victim, frozen in time, bleeding out on the ground. He noticed a faint gleam from his neck: the point of a throwing star, embedded in the throat. So the man had been hit from behind…

"Play it again," ordered Clint, before correcting himself hastily. "Please. Sir."

The film played again, and Clint started counting. He knew how long the video was (about 48 seconds) and how far into the clip the murder had to occur (about 27 seconds or so), and he figured he'd be able to pinpoint anyone who made a sudden movement at that time. As it was, he only noticed a hand jerking just into the frame, hiding the rest of the murderer. "There! Freeze it!" Clint commanded, and the video stopped instantly. Keeping his eyes glued to the hand, he said, "Back it up at 25% normal speed." The scene sluggishly reversed, and for a brief second, the murderer became visible.

"There! That's her, right there." It still wasn't stellar quality – the woman had her back to the camera and was wearing a scarf over her hair – but her profile was recognizable enough.

"Holy shit. Please tell me you guys aren't tracking down the _Black Widow_."

Fury smiled thinly. "Oh no, Barton. We're not doing anything. That's _your_ next assignment."

Name: Romanova, Natalia A.

Codename: Black Widow

Place of Birth: Moscow, Russia

Date of Birth: Unknown

Skill Set: Covert intelligence gathering, undercover reconnaissance and infiltration/seduction, short-range assassinations, interrogation/torture techniques, hand-to-hand combat

Affiliations: KGB, Red Room, Freelance (present)

Known Associates: None

Current Location: Unknown

Two pages. That was all the information S.H.I.E.L.D. had compiled regarding the Black Widow. Two measly pages – general information and a victims list – and a few blurry photographs.

"This is a monumental breakthrough in the Widow's case," said Fury, as Clint poured over the scant information in the file. "Usually, by the time the Widow is confirmed as the killer, the trail is cold and the Widow is long gone. This hit, however, occurred only 4 hours ago. Our operatives in Berlin will track her movements until you, Agent Barton, can join the hunt yourself."

"And why, exactly, can't the Berlin agents take her out themselves?" demanded Clint. "Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered and a little nauseous to think you want to send me after the most notorious contract assassin in history, who's killed more people than I've ever met in my life, and has never been caught on video before, and is named after a deadly spider that eats its mate, and…where was I going with that? Oh, right. Why me?"

"Because, Agent Barton," interjected Phil smoothly, a comforting hand moving to Clint's shoulder, "your long-distance capabilities as a sniper give you both the highest chance of success and the lowest risk of injury. You're the best agent for this job. We truly believe you're the most qualified to finally end this menace." Hill made a disparaging noise at that, but Coulson ignored her. "All you have to do is track her down and kill her the second you have a clear shot. You don't need to approach her. Just shoot first and ask questions later."

Clint stared at the picture of Natalia Romanova in his hands. There was no denying that she was as beautiful as she was deadly: rich, fiery red hair, flashing emerald eyes, luminescent white skin, and an angel's face paired with full, ruby sinner's lips. She was short – only 5'4", about half a foot shorter than himself – and slender, with tempting curves. She might have been the most gorgeous woman Clint had ever seen, if there had been any warmth or humanity in her expression. Instead, her face was cold and empty and dead. A monster.

His eyes drifted to the victims list on the table, printed single spaced and covering the front and back of the paper in tiny, cramped letters. One name on the list caught his eye. _Yasmin Drakoff, age 7_. A child, barely older than Clint had been when his parents died and he ran off to join the circus with Barney. Her life had ended when Clint's had just begun. And that decided him. He looked up, meeting Fury's eyes. "When do I leave?"

There was a glimmer of triumph in the man's face as he replied, "As soon as you're done packing."

**A/N And that's Chapter 1! Hopefully the next chapter will be up within a few days. Hope you like it, and thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Couple of things here - all foreign language translatons are from Google Translate, so my apologies if they're inaccurate. No offense to those who actually speak the language. The lyrics for this are from "Brothers on a Hotel Bed" by Death Cab for Cutie. Song is basically unrelated, but I love this line in regards to Clint and Natasha. Enjoy and please review!**

The youthful boy below

who turned your way and saw

Something he was not looking for:

both a beginning and an end

Natalia Romanova was starting to get pissed.

Contrary to popular belief, she didn't really _have_ a temper; anger was an emotion, and emotions interfered with the job. However, being the most infamous assassin in the world certainly got the rumor mills churning, and soon everyone believed that a single misstep would land them at the top of her hit list.

She wasn't stupid. She wasn't even all that violent. She knew that, despite being far too conspicuous, killing for fun was crossing the fine line from human to monster – and despite their best efforts, the Red Room hadn't made her into a monster. They might have, maybe, had she stayed longer; but when the opportunity to leave arose, she fled into the night and never looked back.

She thought she was done running. She thought she had built enough walls, walls of secrets and lies and death, to keep herself safely hidden. Now, after nearly a month being hunted by some unknown entity, she was realizing she could never stop running. And that just _pissed her off_.

She crossed the worn floorboards of her dingy hotel room, cracking the curtains to peer out at the street below. She had managed to shake her tail for about 12 hours now, but she wasn't feeling complacent; every time she seemed to have lost him, he appeared silently behind her, like a shadow appearing with the sunrise.

Natalia didn't know who he was or what he wanted, but she could hazard a guess. There were ways – discreet, hidden ways – to contact her when her…_skills_ were needed. This man never seemed willing to approach, keeping to the rooftops and trailing her relentlessly. He could only be marking her for the kill.

Natalia let out a soft snort at that. As though he – as though _anyone_ – could kill her. Death would be a blessing, a stroke of luck. It was for the saints and martyrs, and Natalia, being neither, knew she was damned to drag out her days until the world imploded on itself.

She would have to kill the man trailing her. There was no other option. The world had always been divided that way: the strong against the weak, the killers against the victims. It was black and white and tainted with red, with no shades of gray between. Natalia knew that – it had been stained on her mind when she was four years old.

Closing the curtains, Natalia crawled onto the deflated mattress in the corner of the room. She would sleep for just a few hours and then leave to continue the hunt. Whether she would be predator or prey, she did not know.

Clint Barton had had the shot. Just for a second – her pale, perfect face had appeared at the window, like a siren surfacing from below. He'd had an arrow nocked and aimed at the window; it would have taken less than a second to release it, to watch it fly in silent line through the glass, to end her life. He'd had the shot – and he hadn't taken it.

He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it'd been the startling flash of emotion he'd seen in the curve of her frown, the regret and bitterness glimmering in her eyes. Perhaps he'd remembered another hotel room in another city, where different S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had been tracking a criminal famed for his hit list…

"_Hawkeye, this is Papa Bear, gimme a read on your current situation_."

Clint sighed as he lowered his bow, admitting to himself that he'd blown his chance for now. Pressing one hand to his comm (the damn thing was _always_ falling out; S.H.I.E.L.D's tech crew could never find the right size for his ears), he replied.

"Hawk to Pooh Bear, target is in sight but out of clear range. Gonna have to sit tight and wait 'til she leaves."

Phil's voice crackled back, sounding tinny and far away. "_There's another codename I'll never use again. I'm starting to think I should just go by Phil_."

"It's got a nice ring to it! I don't think anyone knows your first name isn't Agent."

"_Hmph. I gotta ask you, kid – when are you gonna take the shot? Fury's getting antsy. We've never been this close to eliminating the Widow before. This is the biggest solo op S.H.I.E.L.D. has seen in awhile_."

Clint ground his teeth in frustration. "She knows she's being followed – she's sticking to big crowds and civilian areas. I can't get a clear shot to her without taking out at least a dozen others in the crossfire. It's not like she's prone to wandering down abandoned alleys at night – she's not stupid."

There was a slight pause, then Coulson responded, his voice quieter than before. "_Fury's been tossing some names around…agents that specialize in up-close-and-personal assassinations. He's starting to rethink his strategy, doesn't know if the hands-off approach is going to work_."

"Fuck," Clint muttered. The biggest assignment he'd ever gotten, and he was _this_ close to screwing it all up. He shook his head, clearing out an trace of pity for the Widow he may have been harboring. Next time, he wouldn't hesitate. "Give me another week – I swear, I'll see this through 'til the end. Just one more week."

He could practically see Phil's shoulders slump. He'd heard the thinly veiled relief in his handler's voice when he spoke of pulling him off the mission – as proud as Phil would be if Clint pulled this off, he'd much rather have his agent back home, preferably in one piece.

Finally, with a sigh, Phil gave in. "_Fine. I'll tell Fury to give you another week. Then we're extracting you and putting in Hi-_-" Phil stopped abruptly, but it was too late.

"They're sending _Hill_ as my replacement? Oh, no. No way in hell. She's not taking this away from me. I'll call you back when the Widow's dead." With that, Clint yanked out his comm., stuffing it in his pocket, and returned to glaring at the window.

Natalia made her way silently to the airport, avoiding the puddles of light cast by streetlamps. She brushed against buildings as she moved, hugging the protective shadows as she walked. She dropped to the ground to peer around every corner she turned.

It was dangerous and risky to travel at night, but Natalia had always found comfort in the dark, with only the stars and moon to witness her misdeeds. If she were the philosophical type, she would say the pale white glow of the moon was more forgiving, more merciful than the golden glare of the sun.

Since she was not philosophical, she attributed her odd sense of security to the simple fact that blood was harder to see in the dark.

She had slept for three short hours in her hotel room; when she awoke, her neck prickled with the sense of being watched, and she knew her huntsman had caught up with her. She couldn't deny that she was impressed – even the Red Room had lost track of her after two weeks. Natalia wasn't sure if she should be frightened or flattered at her pursuer's dedication.

The hairs at the base of her scalp rose suddenly, and she spun around, instinctively firing her gun. She heard a grunt of pain as she registered the arrow gliding silently out of the night, aimed straight at her chest.

Her reflexes saved her before she was certain she wanted to be saved. She leapt hastily, sloppily, to her left – the arrow sliced through her shoulder, pinning her to the wooden doorframe of the building behind her.

"I had a feeling spiders were nocturnal." The voice from the shadows was measured, calm, and empty of emotion. When he came within her range of vision, Natalia's heart almost stopped.

He was undeniably a handsome man, older than she but not actually old. He had spiky, sandy blonde hair and soft blue eyes surrounded by laugh lines. His hands were big and rough and brown, his posture relaxed; if he hadn't just tried to kill her, and his shoulder wasn't streaming blood from a fresh bullet wound, she might have described him as kind-looking.

The bow and arrow, though, gave her pause. He looked every inch the avenging angel, come to settle the scores of her past victims. He had another arrow nocked and aimed straight at her heart. She knew this time, he would not miss. And suddenly she did not want him to miss – for what reason did she have to live? Twenty years old, and what did she have to show for her life? A list of victims a mile long and a debt ledger that could never truly be balanced. She was done running, done hiding in the night from the righteous men like this man, men who sought to rid the world of monsters. Men who were _good_.

She closed her eyes, mouthing a noiseless apology to her past, and prepared to die.

Clint Barton had the shot. _He had the shot_. The Black Widow was wounded, pinned, and though she'd managed to get a shot off, he knew he couldn't miss at such a short distance.

He had the shot; so why couldn't he take it?

Maybe it was the awe, the respect he'd seen flash in her eyes. Maybe it was the silent _I'm sorry_ that fell from her lips as she'd surrendered. Maybe he just hadn't realized that she was so young, too damn young, with too many regrets and not enough time to learn from her mistakes.

Maybe Clint just hated following rules.

Or maybe he saw what no one else had ever seen – the faintest glimmer of hope, the promise of something better inside her. He lowered his bow.

The girl's eyes opened, and _damn_ was she beautiful, her hair hanging around her face and her eyes wide like a startled rabbit.

"а? Ты не собираешься стрелять в меня? (_Well? Aren't you going to shoot me?_)"

Clint stared at her for a moment, remembering for the first time since he accepted the mission that he could not, in fact, speak Russian.

When he didn't reply, she became angry, twisting her body and grinding the arrow deeper into her flesh. "Сделайте это. Убей меня. Или я должен сделать это сам? (_Do it. Kill me. Or must I do it myself?_)"

"I, uh, kind of don't have a clue what you're saying." Clint really hoped she spoke English; if not, the diplomatic part of this was going to be pretty difficult. Not to mention his earlier, extremely witty taunt would have gone to waste.

The English finally seemed to register with her – she took a deep breath and spoke again, her voice husky with pain and weighed down with a Russian accent. "Why won't you kill me?"

Clint flashed a grim smile before laying his bow on the ground. "Because that would be rude. I haven't even introduced myself yet. They call me Hawkeye. Miss Romanova, I think I have a job offer for you…"

Maybe they'd fire him tomorrow for this, but if he'd learned one thing in his life, it's that everyone needs a second chance. Or maybe, just maybe, S.H.I.E.L.D. would thank him for this.

**Hope to get the next chapter up soon, I think I'm starting to figure this site out. May be posting one of my unrelated one-shots this week as well.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Second to last chapter here folks! Thanks for sticking with me, and all the love and hugs to my reviewers :) This chapter's lyrics are from Ellie Goulding's "My Blood."**

And God knows I'm not dying but I breathe now

And God knows it's the only way to heal now…

* * *

They had reached a compromise; Clint swore he wouldn't make any further attempts on her life, and the Widow had stared at him, emotionless and unreadable, until he unpinned her from the wall.

They walked back to her hotel by silent agreement. Clint, out of some misplaced sense of chivalry he had been surprised to discover, had forced the Widow to take his jacket. She raised her eyebrows disdainfully, silently rejecting the offer.

"Look," said Clint, starting to get annoyed with the whole situation and _holy shit, he had just saved the Black Widow instead of killing her, and he was so so dead_, "you kind of have a huge gaping hole in your shoulder, and things like that tend to alarm the locals. At least cover it up 'til we get back to the hotel."

"And what of your wound?" she questioned, the words rolling from her tongue, thickly bundled in her Russian accent. He liked to pretend it was her true, unaffected voice; during his time of hunting her, he had heard her slip flawlessly into a myriad of different accents.

It was probably a naïve hope, thinking she had let her guard down and was truly concerned for him.

"A bullet hole is less noticeable and in any case, it's dark enough to hide most of my blood. You're still bleeding, though." He thought he saw her lips curl into what some people might consider a smile – strange sense of humor, those Russian assassins had.

The hotel manager looked askance at them as they walked through the brightly-lit lobby, but one steely glare from the Widow kept him from commenting. They rode the elevator, maintaining the silence that had grown between them during their walk. Clint was really starting to think through the implications of his actions. This could be considered treason; he could be fired, arrested, put to death – oh, the possibilities were endless. But as he looked at the Widow – scared, lonely, and lost – he didn't see an enemy. He just saw a girl that didn't mean to be a killer, hadn't expected to get in this deep and didn't know to pull herself back up. The ancient elevator lurched to a stop, and the girl tried not to flinch as the jarring movement aggravated her injury.

Yeah, maybe it was going to be a shitstorm back at S.H.I.E.L.D., but so far, Clint couldn't honestly say he regretted his choice.

* * *

Natalia didn't understand why this stranger had saved her. She had been ready to die – so, so willing to die. She hadn't even needed time to make peace with her God (she didn't have one, after all) and she knew there was no one left to mourn her (any friends she may have possessed were long dead, most by her own hand). For once in her short, brutal life, she saw no reason to fight, no reason to live.

No doubt it was a brief moment of morbidity caused by the Russian fatalist in her.

Because here, now, in this moment, she was _alive_, and she should've been dead but she _wasn't_, and each breath of air that filled her lungs was sweeter and richer than water in a desert.

And this man, her would-be executioner, had saved her, had looked into her eyes and seen something worth saving.

It was a heady and unsettling experience, to say the least.

"You need help cleaning that shoulder up?" It took Natalia a slow second to realize the man had spoken to her, was offering to help her, _wanted_ to help her. It was just like before, when he offered his coat to her and she couldn't understand why he would care about a monster like her.

"I can attend to it myself." As an afterthought, almost forcing out the words, she added, "But thank you for your concern."

"No problem," the man replied easily, pulling a white first aid kit from his bag. He removed some gauze and a rolled cloth bandage before tossing the kit to her. "You shouldn't need stitches, and I know I didn't splinter any bones, so everything you'll need is in there."

She wondered if the mild extent of her injury was dumb luck or another instance of his surprising consideration.

She decided not to dwell on it, retreating to the bathroom to treat her shoulder.

When she emerged, the man was gripping a cell phone tightly in his hand, staring at the blank screen. He looked up as she entered.

"Uh, Wid- I mean, Natalia – er, Miss Romanova...actually, what am I supposed to call you?" The man – Hawkeye – seemed almost nervous, but then, Natalia always made men nervous. She had never inspired respect in men though, so she was once again taken aback by his question.

What _did_ she want to be called? More importantly, who _was_ she now? The Black Widow was her trademark, her calling card, the name that went bump in the night, the title that inspired terror. The Black Widow was darkness and brutality and blood spilled that was not hers, blood shed for people who saw her as a weapon, not a person.

Natalia…Natalia was the woman the Red Room had made, someone with no past or future beyond what _they_ had wanted her to have. She had been a slave, an experiment, built, from her blood to her bones, into their plaything. Natalia had never been her own person.

As for Romanova, well, her family name was Romanov – the "a" ending was the mark of her Russian heritage, an inane grammar rule she had never much thought of before. But now it seemed like a brand, marking her for the country that had abused her, abandoned her, sent her into the world to live or die without much emotional investment in either outcome. It was her home country, and yet her home had never been there, had never been anywhere.

Except for with her family. She remembered the bewhiskered smile of her father, the high-pitched squeals of her younger siblings; most of all, she remembered her mother swinging her around the kitchen trilling, "Natasha, my Natashka!" remembered her sweet voice lowered solemnly, singing lullabies of children getting carried off into the woods. The memories had been lost to her in the Red Room, but even after she left, when her mind was once more her own and she began to remember, she hadn't thought much about it.

Now, she realized her home and her life and herself had always come from that crowded wooden shack; her name had always been the one that fell from her mother's tired, cracked lips. She was not lost; she was not the Widow or Natalia or any of the names she had assumed over the years, meaningless labels she'd slipped in and out of without hesitation.

Her real name, her true self, had been there all along, beating in body, pumping through her heart, waiting for someone to give her the chance to set it free.

She answered his question after a pause, seeing the patience in his eyes as she had her epiphany.

"My name is Natasha Romanov."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Thanks for sticking with the story, guys! This will be the last chapter of Application Process; the next story in this series will be posted in a week or so, since I'm about to leave for vacation. Special thanks to deathbat666, ksp2010, and Makurayami Ookami for reviewing every chapter. I really appreciate it, guys! Song lyrics are from Florence + The Machine's "Hurricane Drunk"**

I brace myself,

Cause I know it's going to hurt,

But I like to think at least things can't get any worse.

They sat opposite each other in the small room, both being careful not to turn their back on the door or window or other assassin. Natalia – _Natasha_ – was the first to break the silence, a rare occurrence. Usually she was the best at watching and waiting until the other person cracked. She took it as a sign of how much she'd changed already, that this man (_Clint_, he'd said to call him) could best her in a staring contest.

"So. What now?"

The man, Hawkeye or Clint or whoever, rubbed his temples before grinning sheepishly at her. "I've kind of been making this up as I go along. But I guess I'll take you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. to see if we can get you a job with the good guys."

"Is your recruitment policy always so aggressive?" she asked, coyly stroking her fingers over her bandaged shoulder. The man laughed, which surprised Natasha. She thought that might have been the first joke she'd ever made.

"Nah, you got off easy. You should've seen the damage when Phil recruited me – I could barely walk for a week." She doesn't know if he is kidding, so she holds her tongue and continues staring at him. He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with her scrutiny. But then, people have never been comfortable around her; some deep seated survival instinct warned them _stay away, danger_.

Except for this man, who hadn't seen the danger, or who had ignored it in favor of giving her another chance for some unknown, probably righteous reason. So she asked him.

"Why?"

He knows she's not asking about his last comment – the silence has gone on long enough to signal a switch in subjects. Besides, he must know there's only one question rolling around in her head right now: _why me, why did you save me, why wouldn't you kill me, why do you think I can be saved?_

"Because – " he starts, then clears his throat. He tries again. "Because I've been there before, with no one thinking you're worth more than the weapon you wield. Because I know what it's like to keep fighting even when you don't know what you're fighting for, just because it's safe and it's something you've always known. Because I've been counted out before, I've been the bad guy, the guy on the other side of the arrow, and I can tell you, the insurance benefits are much better on this side of the line. Because I've already been given my second chance and now I'm just trying to pay it forward – give a penny, take a penny, right?"

She stares at him again, both for the surprising openness of his response and the implications of what it means for her. If there really was another way to live her life…

"And what if I don't want to change? If I…can't?"

"Well, you'll probably be shot by someone won't lose sleep over it, I'll be fired and probably hung for treason – _do_ we still hang people, or are we more 'civilized' than that? – and the world will continue turning as it did before. Because right now, your life doesn't matter. It won't ever matter unless you give it meaning with your actions."

She rolled her eyes – where did Jean-Paul Sartre come from? – and was about to make a scathing remark when the phone in his hand started singing loudly.

"_Got in a little hometown jam so they put a rifle in my hand – Sent me off to a foreign land to go and kill the yellow man – Born in the U.S.A. – I was born in the U.S.A. – I was born in the U.S.A. – Born in the U.S.A._"

Hawkeye paled almost imperceptibly – almost, except that she was the Black Widow and it was her job to notice these things.

"I gotta take this call, it's my boss." He flashed her another strained grin - дорогой Господь, he was absurdly cheerful considering his profession – before sliding his phone over the screen and exclaiming, "Phil! Have I got a story for you…"

"Dammit, Clint, we can have story time later. I need a situation report right now. Everyone is losing their damn minds over here, Fury's been acting almost concerned, and Hill's been strutting around and using your stash of coffee."

"_Not the Costa Rican brew? Fuck, I'm pretty sure the place where I bought that stuff exploded last time I was there…_"

Phil tried not to growl his response into the phone; he hadn't mentioned it, but the most catatonic response over Clint's radio silence had come from him. If Clint hadn't picked up this time, he would've already been on a plane, backup team in tow.

"Forget the coffee, Barton. I need to know everything, starting with the Black Widow. Is she dead or has she rabbitted?"

"_You know, that expression never sounds cool when you use it, Phil. You enunciate too much_."

Clint was stalling, and Phil knew it. Fuck. That could only mean…

"You've lost her, haven't you?"

He could picture Clint's offended pout when he replied. "_Of course not! I'm staring at her right now, actually. In fact, we were just about to call you for an extraction team. I left my jet in Berlin and it's a long way to hitchhike back to New York_."

"Stop screwing around Hawkeye, where is she?" Phil had already gone through his list of increasingly impersonal nicknames; next he would have to refer to him as Senior Agent CB 93-09.

There was a tense pause, then: "_I'm not screwing with you, Phil. I've got the Black Widow – well, her name is Natasha, apparently – in custody. I wanna bring her in as an asset for S.H.I.E.L.D._."

Phil took a deep breath, reminding himself that hurling his phone at the wall would sever his only line of communication with his (clearly insane) operative.

"Barton. Have you lost your damn mind, or do you have a gun to your head right now? Just say 'dumbass' for the first option or – "

"_Phil, really now. I think she can help. And more than that, I think she _needs_ help. From us. Let me bring her in – give her a chance to balance her ledger. Please_."

It was the same line Phil had used to convince Clint to come in, to switch sides and fight for the government rather than against it. He couldn't say no to that, and the damn kid knew it too.

"Fine. Your evac will be there in 0400 hours. Please try to restrain her – even if you don't think she's dangerous, I don't know how the pilot will feel with her running loose on his plane."

"_Jeeze, Phil, she's not some sort of savage_."

"Says you," muttered Phil petulantly, before sighing. "I really hope you know what you're doing, kid."

Clint's voice softened then, no doubt hearing the worry that tightened Phil's throat. "_I do. Trust me_." The call disconnected.

"Always have, kid. Always will."

Phil hung up his phone and calmly started assembling the paperwork for his new recruit. Something told him, however, that the Widow's application process was going to be slightly different from usual S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol.

**Update: The first chapter of the sequel to this story has been posted! It is titled "Time to Adjust."**


End file.
